Mekong Muster Part 4

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We are now at the Cambodia/Vietnam border and it’s day something or other into our caravanserai  adventure as we watch the world slip by in air conditioned comfort. Thank you barman, you may indeed freshen up my drink and as the story goes, I have this medical condition which requires this glass to be replenished every half hour, on the half hour.

Yesterday, our second day in Phnom Pen was a great day, it has to be said. After trying to imagine what it must have been like (impossible) during the Khmer Rouge times the child bride and I decided to have the afternoon in. We were all pagoda’d out anyway. Then some of our party mates suggested a trip to a bar down town. No worries said I. Five of us piled into a tuc tuc and off we went. We found a place overlooking the river where happy hour went from 7.00am to 11.00pm, I kid you not. Icy draft beer for $0.75. We spent the afternoon there and the bill for five was less than $30.00. I am moving to this country and buying a Lexus.

Needless to say, last night (two nights ago, now) was either a write-off or a triumph, depending on how you look at it. We’ve pretty much commandeered the music situation so instead of middle of the road we now have Rolling Stones and Guns ‘N Roses and the place is jumping. It’s karaoke night tonight so that will be interesting.

It’s the morning after karaoke night and it’s been a struggle. My attention span could not extend to the intricacies of a spinning loom operated by a 12 year old girl I’m afraid. And vague memories of Wish You Were Here are swirling round my brain and bouncing off the insides of my skull. Fortunately we’re cruising this afternoon because I don’t think I need to learn any more rural Vietnamese life skills.

I decided to finish this story in the library. It’s the only public place on the ship where you can’t be tempted by alcoholic extravagance and it’s as far away from a bar as it’s possible to be.

Mekong Muster Part 3

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Just spent a very confronting morning at one of the killing fields outside Phnom Pen then the Genocide Museum which is in what was a school and was used by the Khmer Rouge as a torture venue. From reading some of the so-called confessions and listening to the guides relate stories of the time you wonder whether the Khmer Rouge ever questioned how the CIA managed to employ hundreds of thousands of agents including whole families. Being good Buddhists the locals eventually forgave the bad guys whereas most of us would have been sorely tempted to exact some form of retribution, with extreme prejudice.

You’d think Cambodia would be the most anti-communist place on earth after experiencing the most perverted version of an already perverted political philosophy but there can’t be too many places with both a North Korean Embassy (next door to the Prime Minister’s house as it happens) and a Cuban Embassy as well as a street called Mao Tse Tung Boulevard. I took a picture of the North Korean embassy but we weren’t allowed to take pictures of the US embassy. I guess if you’re North Korean this is probably one of the safer places in the world to be what with The Donald’s finger hovering over The Button. That reminds me, North Korea is the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea and under Pol Pot this place was called Democratic Kampuchea. The similarity is that no one gets to or got to vote.

Time to lighten the mood. If I asked you to name the place with the largest proportion of Lexus’s (or is that Lexii) on the road in relation to the other vehicles, you might suggest Nagoya, where Toyotas are made or Geneva (no, that’s Ferraris with Arab rego plates) or Manhattan. I guarantee you wouldn’t guess Cambodia but that is in fact the case. They are everywhere. It’s like some weird parallel universe. And I still haven’t received a satisfactory explanation as to why. It’s fated to be one of those unanswerable questions like why does a women stroke her chin when she drives or why does “change up” mean “slow down” or why can’t some people see the absolute logic of all of my arguments?

Mekong Muster Part 2

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Actually “Mekong” is a bit of a misnomer. We have been on the Tonle Sap River for the past 3 days and don’t reach the Mekong until this afternoon in Phnom Penh. The Tonle Sap River is highly unusual because in the dry season the Mekong pushes water north along the Tonle Sap and in the wet season there’s enough water flowing into the Tonle Sap Lake in the north to push the water south down the river. So it’s one way part of the year and the other for the rest. Wouldn’t be out of place in Hollywood.

There are 172 floating villages round the lake. Everyone lives in a relocatable home and all are connected to the same sewerage system. Needless to say of the hundreds of fish species in the lake, the most prevalent is the brown trout. Fish and rice provide most of the sustenance but like an old mate of mine from Japan, they’ll eat anything with its back to the sun, tigers and elephants excluded. Tarantula sandwich anyone?

On a more serious note, Cambodia has an awful lot of catch-up to play after the atrocities committed by the Khmer Rouge. There were about 10,000 doctors here pre-1975. By 1979 when Pol Pot and his mob were finished there were seven. SEVEN! Now families have eight or nine kids as repopulation continues apace. There are some inherent human skills that can never be eradicated even by the most determined scumbags.

This trip is quite unlike what you would imagine a river cruise to be if you’re thinking of Amsterdam to Budapest or the Loire Valley. It’s all very rural and life experience stuff. Yesterday we went for a ride in an ox cart which really loosened up the joints. I suggested to the farmer in charge of our transportation that he consider installing eight sided wheels as they’d be much more comfortable than his six sided versions.

But it’s not all killing fields and Old Macdonald’s farm. Back on the boat there’s a party group as you would expect. Yesterday was my birthday (thanks for all the good wishes) and we found a guitar so raucously worked through all of the songs I could remember. It’s amazing how good Wish You Were Here sounds with a bucket of Southern Comfort in the bag.

Off for a tuc tuc tour of the city soon. A tuc tuc is like a carriage for two or four people towed behind a vehicle with what sounds like a ride-on mower engine. Should be interesting. We’ll be stopping at some markets where the child bride will put her considerable bargaining skills to good use. So I’ll have to stop at an ATM.

Mekong Muster Part 1

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In August 2017 the child Bride and I visited Cambodia and Vietnam and took a leisurely cruise down the Mekong River. Following is a 6 part opus on that epic journey.

Well the Mekong Muster, Siem Reap in Cambodia to Ho Chi Minh City in Vietnam, is now well underway. We are on the boat – La Marguerite – and having done the unpacking and explored the boat the 40 degree heat and 100% humidity are doing their job. La Marguerite is very small – about 78 passengers I think – but has two bars. Having been on here all of two hours I think we’ve done well to befriend Jenny, one of the bar attendants who now knows our order. Jenny is here to mitigate the heat and humidity.

But let’s backtrack a couple of days. We flew out of Brisbane on Saturday afternoon in gorilla class but on Singapore Airlines – scant compensation I know but it could have been a whole lot worse. No….no it couldn’t – can’t think of anything worse after all of those years flying at the front on someone else’s dime. I know you’re all feeling my pain – thanks, that makes so much difference.

We had 8 hours in Singers airport and despite all of my previous travels I have never been asked to rate a toilet but there in the airport was this very opportunity. So I go for a pee and there’s a box on the wall in the loo that says “Rate our toilet” and you can tap a button of your choice. I was torn between shithouse and pissweak. But enough of that so let’s move along.

The rest of the trip to Seam Reap was uneventful but now it gets interesting. In this politically correct world we live in, if you believe cultures are unequal you are a bigot. Anyone who thinks Angkor Wat is the equivalent of a handprint on a cave wall or a poison dart blown through a hollow reed or an ability to build a mud hut that will withstand a light drizzle can call me a bigot – guilty as charged. And we’re not here to indulge in in-depth academic debates on the pros and cons of the noble savage vs the industrial revolution so let’s leave it superficial and flippant. Those temples – hundreds of them – are not only works of incredible detail and complexity but they were carved out of impenetrable jungle about 800 years ago. Of course elephants help, vis a vis the jungle bit but it still must have been an architect’s paradise.

Compare with the pharaoh’s chief architect:
“So your munificent, sun shines out of your sarcophagus, God-pharaoh, you want me to build you a tomb. May I remind you I built the sphinx, the library of Alexandria and consulted on the hanging gardens of Babylon, so it’s not another bloody pyramid is it? Oh, it is. It’s a big one, you say, with lots of secret passageways. Hoo-f..ing-ray.”

At Angkor Thom and Angkor Wat and all the others, the builders had an absolute ball it seems compared with the poor old pyramid builders.

The first day, after spending most of Saturday night in the airport, was zombie central but we did manage to drag ourselves away from the air conditioning for a few hours. Apart from visiting the aforementioned temples, a highlight was visiting a school where a program called Overseas Development in Art teaches art as well as English language, computing and a few other things to underprivileged and orphaned kids. It was started by a local artist and now extends to eight schools. He established all eight of them.

Compared to our whiney, the tax payer owes me a living, artists who produce bugger all of any redeemable or cultural value, like standing on one leg in a bucket of offal for six hours at a time, this guy is a saint and deserves the Nobel Prize. Think Mother Theresa without the leprosy. And he’s a bloke.

But last night after climbing all over a series of temples, we did what everyone does when visiting a provincial Asian city for the first time. We visited Pub Street (that’s what it’s called) and drank $1 beers in the Red Piano Bar. Well I did. Jan drank $3 wines. Secondly, I did what every male does in these places…..no, not that. I had my feet eaten. Yes, you read that right. I dangled my feet in a large tank of water and dozens of fish nibbled the dead skin off my feet.

Now it has to said, I have the ugliest feet in Christendom (which we weren’t actually in to be fair) but these little buggers gave it a red hot go and did an admirable job. But really. If you thought maggots or bacteria are at the bottom of the food chain, think again because I can’t think of anything that beats this in a disgusting race to the last link. Of course if you’re ticklish it’s almost unbearable. I lasted about 15 minutes. Another hour or two and I could have been a foot model.

For the next seven or eight days the most stressful decision will be which of the two bars to patronise, as in offer them my custom, not talk down to them. And when the intermittent wifi kicks in I’m going to find out where I can buy some of those fish.

I Went to See “The (chortle) Boss”

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Well I have to admit to being suitably chastened.

Bruce Springsteen was in town and while I like a lot of his music (notwithstanding the wankerish, farcical, working class pretence of a lot of his lyrics), it’s never been enough to make me want to go to one of his concerts. Why would I want to listen to a champagne socialist with a few hundred mil in the bank, houses all over the North American continent and who flies everywhere in a private jet and have to listen to typical social justice warrior hypocrisy on how we’re destroying the planet and did I mention that Trump is Satan.

Friends of ours had a spare ticket for his concert here in Brisbane and asked me if I wanted to go and naturally I jumped at the chance. Two can play this hypocrisy game. It was sensational – fair cop me! And there was little time for commentary because there were mostly no breaks between songs. Talk about relentless. His only vaguely SJW comment referred to a charity which collects unused food from restaurants etc to distribute to the homeless and they were fundraising outside the venue. He recommended contributing – fair enough. And it was Valentine’s Day so there was a massive plug for the blokes to buy flowers for loved ones even if it’s just a crumby old single rose. Incidentally, and I’ll give myself a plug here, when I was last in full time employment I used to buy a rose for the mothers on our floor on Mother’s Day. No one ever bitched about me (that I was aware of) – management in action. Oh, and being Valentine’s Day it was only fair that I be at a concert while the child bride was a home watching I’m a Celebrity – Get Me Out of Here.

Anyhow back to Bruce. He did a few things I have never seen in a concert before and I’ve been to a few. Firstly he got up close and personal with the crowd in that he actually waded into the crowd – the standing only part at the front. He let kids strum his guitar during one song. He crowd surfed – can you believe it – about 20m across the standing area back to the stage. As far as I could tell, none of the women tried to confiscate his cruet as he passed overhead. Maybe his wife’s presence on the stage as part of the band put a dampener on that. Then during “Dancing in the Dark” he inevitably (if you’ve seen the clip of the song) invited a girl on stage to dance. Then another, then another, then another, then a bloke (??) then a young girl who looked about 8. All up about nine people invited on stage with one dancing on his pianist’s grand piano (he looked a tad pissed). Then the 8 year old got to sing a few bars.

Only one word for all of this – respect. Bruce, you’re still a social justice warrior wanker but you sure can put on a show.

The AFL – Not Everyone’s Favourite Sport.

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I recently read an article in GQ magazine called “10 Wankers You Only See at the AFL”. They are, in order:
1. Eddie Maguire – if you’re Australian you know who this bloke is. If you’re not, don’t fret.
2. The bloke who immediately shouts ”baaalll” when an opposition player gets possession. This is like a rugby fan demanding a rugby player be penalised for not releasing the ball immediately he is touched by an opposition defender.
3. People who slag off at the huge banners the players run through at the start of a game. More on this later.
4. The up close and personal slagger – the bloke (or shiela) who’s hanging over the boundary fence screaming abuse at the nearest opposition player. More on this later also.
5. The branded stadium fan. Not sure whether the author of the piece is complaining about the fan who refers to the stadium as Drinky Cola Stadium or its old pre-branding name of Ponce Park.
6. The dodgy runner – this is the bloke who relays water and messages to the players during play and gets in the way. Easily fixed – ban it. Can you imagine trainers all over the field during a Manchester derby.
7. The light beer cry baby – they sit in the licensed area in the middle of a row and annoy the shit out of twenty people every 15 minutes when they have to squeeze past to get another beer. Not sure what the reference to light beer is though.
8. The box bastard is the bloke who gets to sit in a box because of connections and pretty much ignores the game.
That’s the end of the list. Now the most attentive of you will have noticed a minor inconsistency between the title of the piece and the content, specifically the number of separate bits that make up the content. That’s it – there are supposed to be 10 but the author could only think of 8. I guess he rounded it up. Or the GQ editor was asleep.
This is symptomatic of the massive susceptibility AFL has to the traditional Aussie piss-take. And I am not about to pass up this opportunity to take one.
Starting with banner-man (wanker number 3), there are many AFL people who spend every night of the working week either watching their team train (the ones that still train at night – old traditions die hard) or constructing massive crepe paper banners with stupid messages on them. They hold it up for about 10 seconds, the team runs though it and shreds the bottom couple of feet, it is then taken down and discarded. A week’s work gone in the blink of an eye. The term “get a life” was coined specifically for these people. Confession – I am banner-slagger-man.
The up close and personal slagger (wanker number 4) is a close relative of banner-man but spends his week watching re-runs of the last time his team won anything. This guy knows who won left half back flanker of the year for Collingwood in 1935. On match day he gets a skin-full and screams abuse at opposition players and umpires alike. He paid his taxes (when he worked a few years ago) so it’s his right, right? A certain well known cricketer would have evolved into this bloke if he hadn’t genetically stumbled on a dynamite right arm.
Now let’s look at this “game” more generally.
They refer to the dressing sheds as “rooms” as in “Lanky Longfellow must be really hurt because they’ve taken him into the rooms”. I have “rooms” in my house and there is not an AFL person anywhere to be seen.
They refer to teams as “playing groups”. That’s what we take our kids to when they are too young for school. They are TEAMS and collectively the TEAMS make up the club.
They refer to captains, vice captains and senior players as the “leadership group”. They also have multiple captains and vice captains and I think “senior player” is a title you can bestow upon yourself because there is no hard and fast definition. No, each TEAM has a CAPTAIN and a VICE CAPTAIN, that way there is no confusion as to who is responsible for running the play during the game if we can get that runner (wanker number 6) off the field for good.
The “F” in AFL stands for “Football”, not what you think I think it stands for. Listen to an AFL person talk and you will think it stands for “Footy”. I think there’s a competition amongst AFL types to see who can lever this word into a conversation the most times. So the ball is a footy, the game is footy, the players play footy, the spectators watch and worship footy, the hacks write about footy, footy is all over the news. In fact it is the only news in Melbourne where they learned about 9-11 in October because it happened during the footy finals.
Have you noticed how whenever a player has a milestone to celebrate or is retiring, they always run out carrying and/or leading a tribe of little kids? This has absolutely no relevance to the proceedings other than for the player to demonstrate to the world that not only can he play “footy” but he is a real man because here is the proof that he has sex……. with women.
After the game the players and assorted hangers on link arms in a circle and all sing “I’m a Lumberjack and I’m Okay” which I believe is the team (not the playing group) song for all of the clubs.
And last but not least, the AFL is the vanguard social justice warrior organisation in the country. The AFL is an organisation just like Qantas and the ABC and the Australian Workers Union are organisations. Organisations are defined by a few pieces of paper with articles of association written on them and maybe a certificate from ASIC. But apparently if the boss of the AFL says the AFL supports gay marriage or an ABC journalist says the ABC supports climate change then everyone at the organisation is tarred with that brush. This is bullshit not least because organisations as such, don’t have brains.
Extending this theme in respect of the AFL, every weekend there is a cause to promote. So we have the Multicultural round, we have the Indigenous round, we have the Women’s round we have the AFL executives shouldn’t have sex with adult women who also work for the AFL round. The actual “footy” is being crowded out by social engineering. But I’ll give the virtue signallers at AFL House a piece of advice for free. Up close and personal slagger (wanker number 4), who makes up at least 50% of your fan base, doesn’t give a shit.

Back for My Birthday and The List

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The aftermath of 4 weeks in Europe.

After 4 weeks on the road (and on the sea and in the air to be more precise) and gastronomic, oenonic and beeronic overindulgences of the moronic rather than lessonic kinds you can imagine that our immune systems were vulnerable to attack so the child bride and I duly came down with catastrophic colds yesterday. Last night my nose, throat and lungs felt like Helms Deep under orc assault with Gandalf and the cavalry not due to arrive until about Friday. Consequently, on this my 60th birthday I feel like doing not much at all really. But this does allow the time for a degree of contemplation of something of vital importance.

If you have passed 60 already you will have received The List. No one knows where it comes from or who sends it or why. It does however provide guidance (as if any was needed, we’re 60 after all) for the twilight (zone) years of our lives. If you are over 60 you need read no further as you will have received your List already. If you are well past 60 you will have received it by post in an envelope with no return address. If you are well under 60 you will not know what I am talking about in that previous sentence (if you know what a sentence, of the grammatical not prison kind, is).

The List I received goes as follows:

1. Health
We, the human race, are living longer. For this reason we are apparently imposing an increasing burden on the health system. Now it stands to reason that if we are living longer we are actually healthier so there is an obvious contradiction here. Notwithstanding this, for the over 60’s the health system is a veritable pub smorgasbord of drugs and treatments to be taken advantage of at every opportunity. Over 60’s have lost all respect for the user pays system because we’ve paid and now it’s time to use. The younger “me generation” is going to have to come to grips with that as total economic melt-down looms because, as yet, they haven’t. Over 60’s won’t because we’ll all be dead, possibly from a drug overdose.

2. Education
a. English
English is about communication. This involves more than abbreviated texting and sexting (in the words and clothes departments respectively) via various devices. These are for making phone calls so people can speak to each other in well constructed sentences. Over 60’s understand this. They also understand that punctuation is not something you do in a colonoscopy bag.

b. Mathematics
Over 60’s can perform addition, subtraction, multiplication and division in their heads. They also know what these things are.

c. History
Over 60’s love history because they have more of it than the young. Stuff happened before the internet. You can use it to check.

3. Sex
For men over 60, sex can be likened to pouring your last can of petrol on the fire. This is a euphemism (for a metaphor) for attaching your superannuation to a fish hook, dangling it in a pool of pre-cougars, catching a trophy wife and going for it until the fire flames out in about 6 months. Then it’s over, assuming the money’s run out also. For married women over 60 this list item has no relevance.

4. Music
In our over 60s’ music, performers actually sing. More recently this has not necessarily been the case. Remember MC Hammer? “Thanks for talking us through that song MC. Now can you sing it and add a few musical instruments to that boring repetitive bass line? Oh…that’s it?” He’s got a lot to answer for. We of the Rolling Stones generation look forward to hoe rap clones scratching each other’s eyes out and the gangsta rap clones shooting each other into extinction. Either way the biggest con in musical history has a limited shelf life. Now leave us to our country and western heavy metal – a tuneless noise about hay – and dreaming about the hedonism of 60’s and 70’s rock.

5. Dancing
Over 60’s don’t or shouldn’t dance. Unfortunately some wish to retain this right. Fortunately the Dad Dance phase is well and truly over by 60 and if you must, it now involves anchoring your feet to the ground and swaying your arms to the music, generally with a small child attached to them.

6. Sport
All references to sport must now begin with the phrase “Back in my day…” as in “Back in my day these poofs wouldn’t have lasted 5 minutes with Lezzy Boyd, Greggy Dowling and Artie Beetson.” All given names (we used to call them Christian names) must end with “y” or “ie”.

7. Injuries
The above sport reference applies equally to sporting injuries as in “Back in my day we’d play on Sunday and go down the mine with a broken leg, a dislocated shoulder and concussion on Monday”.

8. Religion
Most people don’t have any anymore but over 60’s reserve the right to a gradual return especially if the church is putting on free food or more importantly, free booze. The logical extension of this process is the death-bed conversion, just in case.

9. Free Stuff
We deserve it and the rest don’t. They have to pay for it. Simple.

10. Working
What’s that? Hahahaha

11. Fashion
Back in the day when today’s over 60’s were dedicated followers of fashion, it meant something if you wore jeans and thongs. It meant you also wore a flanno and had a mullet which were quite popular for a while there amongst a certain demographic. Some over 60’s now feel comfortable with fashion faux pas such as wearing socks with sandals, a crime for which you can be shot incidentally. And for the over 60 ladies the transition from frilly and filmy to industrial strength is now complete.

12. Drinking
Once you crack the big 6 oh there is no reason to ever buy a drink again. If you find yourself in a pub in a shout with younger members of the community it is likely that they will tell you to take your hand out of your pocket when it is your turn to shout. This behaviour should not be discouraged. In fact it should be actively encouraged by constantly complaining about the bloody government and its treatment of the backbone (sciatica notwithstanding) of the community and you can’t make the pension go as far as it used to blah blah blah. And anyone who doesn’t think we’re the backbone, may we suggest a headcount (see Health).

13. Birthdays
As a youngster, birthdays involve waking up in a pool of your own vomit with a new face tattoo. The older generation is satisfied with more material but no less cheap thrills. Like for the mature man a trip down memory lane with a “look but don’t touch” pass. May we suggest a particular place that unnecessarily interrupts football games with displays of….and…..and beer.

14. Gifts
Birthdays (if it’s yours) are about receiving gifts. Unlike the economy, which many youngsters of a socialistic bent think is a zero sum game, gift giving actually is i.e. every time one gift is given, one is received. We over 60’s know which side of that equation we want to be on.

15. Cars
Over 60’s know that as phones are for making phone calls, cars are for getting you from A to B. Unlike with phones however, we like the toys that come with cars. But we are torn between getting the GT super sport pack or going on another cruise. Convertibles are a particular dilemma. These are for very young people but because most very young people can’t afford a decent convertible, special dispensation has been given to the over 60’s to buy them. Looking ridiculous in a convertible is an issue for people who want “the look” but is irrelevant to over 60’s who revel in not giving a stuff about what they look like (see Fashion).

16. Aging
This brings special privileges which are called brain fades or mental blocks or senior moments or CRAFT as in Can’t Remember A F—ing Thing moments. These involve issues such as going into a room then having to contemplate the exact reason for going in there in the first place.

17. Political Correctness
Over 60’s don’t do political correctness. It’s for well norked celebrities with their climate off-sets and private jets and bureaucrats, academics and ABC types who think they’re distantly related to Evonne Goolagong. If you take offence then put the bloody thing back before the cows escape. Now, did you hear the latest Irish/Polish/Kiwi/Arab/Jewish/Catholic (insert ethnic/religious group to be ridiculed) joke?

18. Politics
This is not relevant. Over 60’s know all there is to know about politics. From one me-generation (baby boomers) to another (the young), don’t worry, it’ll all be fine. We’ll spend our super and you can spend the tax we contribute. Oh that’s right, we don’t contribute tax anymore. Hahahahahaha.

European Safari – Epilogue

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I called this the prologue in the previous post. Apologies to all of those people whose grammar and punctuation I have criticised (justifiably – all of them) in the past.

We got back from Europe in time for my birthday and what feel like massive hangovers.

 

Back home this morning after a rather long time between getting off the boat in Stockholm on Thursday morning and getting back to Brisbane. Still, got here in time to see replays of Broncos v St George played last night and the Wallabies v New Zealand from last Saturday (which we won – woo hoo). Let’s hope the result is the same for the Bledisloe decider tonight (it wasn’t).

Completely knackered after almost 4 weeks of “relaxing” holiday and struggling to make it to a decent hour to go to sleep and avoid the worst of jet lag which has a bigger impact when going west to east than the other way apparently.

We got a magnificent welcome from Charlie the dog who greeted us with an enthusiasm only he can muster. But then he carries on like that when you come back from the toilet. Anyway, he’s helped me watch 2 football games today. Even the cats seemed pleased to see us or at least enough to feign a rather aloof acknowledgement that some familiar faces were back in their house.

My brain is mush at the moment. I used to go into the office after flying in from Europe or wherever, in my younger days. Thankfully, I learnt that lesson eventually. In fact, going into any office seems a somewhat remote possibility at the moment. Thank God it’s Saturday.

 

 

 

European Safari Part 8

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This is the last entry (other than a prologue describing the aftermath – following) regarding the child bride’s and my gallivant round the Baltic and other salubrious European destinations. Stay tuned for the Mekong Muster covering our recent visit to the backblocks of Cambodia and Vietnam ……. in a degree of luxury it has to be said. Remember the child bride has a pathological hatred of cheap champagne and all things camping.

 

Last day today, in Stockholm and we’re doing a roof top walk. There are always numerous onshore trip options and this was an opportunity too good to miss. Saw a couple of the gay guys at breakfast this morning. They’re going to the ABBA Museum. Obviously.

Back from our roof top walk. Wow just about covers it. 40 odd metres up on top of the court house on a walkway about a foot wide with a harness attached to a wire at floor level. You also wear a hard hat which is basically a blood bucket if you fall off. The CB was a bit dubious at first but handled it with aplomb. I got the wobbly boots a couple of times I have to admit but they assured us they hadn’t lost anyone this month so I wasn’t going to be the first. As you can imagine the views were fantastic.

The guides were these fit young Swedish ladies with well developed………senses of humour – quite a pleasant surprise. One regaled us with tales of midsummer celebrations in Sweden (longest day of the year, usually late June) where singing comes before drinking not the other way round. So you sing a ditty then everyone in the group downs a shot. Then the next person sings and you down another shot and so it goes. She gave us two renditions of her ditty, when she was first and when it came round to her turn again in a group of 25. A bit like Not Garfunkel at 2.00pm and Not Garfunkel at 6.00pm but in reverse because we sound better the more we drink. And she pointed out that many babies are born 9 months after midsummer. March must be birthday season in Sweden.

All sounded pretty good to me until she explained what they traditionally eat. Herring figured prominently. I tried pickled herring once. It was revolting. I think they pickle it in brake fluid.

The photo count is up over 1300 after Stockholm with a few more of the ship before we leave tomorrow morning then we’re done. It’ll take me all of next week to file them. Took some photos of the sunset last night. It was amazing; unlike anything we get at home. The sky was like a cathedral dome painting without the angels and cherubs (that we could see).

We’re now sitting in The Looking Glass, our favourite bar, for the last time on this trip reflecting on what has been a fabulous twelve days. The CB’s having her last champagne cocktail and I’m not having my last beer. It’s always a shame to leave and plenty of people stay on for more than one leg. The next one for this ship is almost a reverse repeat of what we’ve done but finishing in Southampton instead of Copenhagen so I don’t expect many will stay on. There were quite a few who stayed on from the previous cruise which was the Norwegian fjords. Apparently the weather was atrocious. Everywhere we’ve been the weather has been great and invariably the tour guides have said “lucky you weren’t here last week….”. Not sure I could do consecutive voyages.

As I said in the previous post we need a rest after this holiday. But then we did have a week in England and a week in Ireland before joining the cruise and we didn’t get out of either unscathed. I forgot to mention in the bit about Ireland – Crean Lager – brewed on the Dingle Peninsular. Superb drop.

Just got back from the final show of the cruise – a hypnotist. He started off with 10 volunteers, 5 men and 5 women. When he’d culled those who weren’t playing the game there were 5 women and 1 man. Interpret this however you want. I personally thought it was bullshit. And he started off by saying he wasn’t going to get them to do anything “dirty” (his word) or remove any clothing so it was a complete waste of time.

That’s it. So we’ve added a few countries to our “Visited” list and crossed a few more things off our bucket list but there are very many more on both lists. If you have the inclination and the wherewithal don’t leave it too late.

European Safari Part 7

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We’re just pulling into Helsinki with only today here and tomorrow in Stockholm to go. Thursday we head to Stockholm airport and home. It’s been over 3 weeks now and after 3 solid days in Saint Petersburg and 3 solid weeks of enjoying ourselves we’re starting to feel a bit jaded like someone I’ve already mentioned a couple of times. I’m pretty sure I now know what a world tour with Guns N Roses feels like. No one’s thrown any underwear at me yet (thank heavens for small mercies). And apparently all of those marriage proposals in Russia were from hookers.
Day 3 in Saint Petersburg was more opulence and extravagance. Peter the Great’s summer palace (about as far out of town as Redcliffe is from Brisbane) is called Peterhof. It is famous for fountains – 180 of them of which 150 have been restored. Most of them comprise multiple jets (500 in one) and all run on gravity – there were no pumps in 1720 and restoration is to the original including gold leaf on virtually everything. And he had nothing on his daughter Elizabeth and niece in law (I think), Catherine the Great who both went berserk when it came to decorating, renovating and building and generally spending money. Why am I not surprised?
Like many places in this area, Peterhof saw two pitched battles in WWII – when the Germans arrived in 1941 and when they were driven out in 1944 so it was mined and bombed to within a facade of its life. But it’s back to what it was like and is a reminder of the disgusting waste of money that went on back then but attracts gaping mouthed tourists now.
We also went to St Isaac’s Cathedral which was used to store valuable stuff during the war on account of its 2m-5m thick granite and marble walls. Another church filled with gold, artistic masterpieces and icons. Ho hum.
Interesting parallel between Russia and Vietnam. The locals were the heroic defenders of all that is good and the Germans and Americans respectively were the worst kind of bastards. We heard snippets of the Red Army’s behaviour in Gdansk and Ronne so as they say, the winners get to write the history although I’m pretty sure the Yanks still think they won in Vietnam.
We had the obligatory all singing all dancing White Night on Sunday evening. The gay boys were in their absolute element putting to shame everyone including two professional dancers, on board to do their enthusiastic ballroom dancing routine – the bloke was throwing the girl around like a marching band leader’s baton when we saw them. Incidentally we saw them perform at an exclusive (half the boat was there) function for repeat cruisers who are in the cruise company’s club. We’ve done three so went along. They also give out awards to the top cruisers on the boat. A UK couple are up to 38. I doubt we’ll live long enough to do that or have the money.
We left Saint Petersburg at 7.00 pm last night so had plenty of daylight to check out the “newer” parts of the city. These included the massive port infrastructure that stretches for miles along the river and into the bay as you head out to sea. There were dozens and dozens, possibly hundreds of cranes at container terminals, a scrap iron wharf, wharves where there were acres and acres of what looked like cement bags, thousands of aluminium ingots and dry docks and floating dry docks galore plus a naval shipyard. Not one crane was operating, there were no people to be seen and there was no vehicle movement anywhere. It was positively eerie – almost as if the whole place shut down when the communists left. Big ports operate 24/7 all year round and especially when the temperature is 22 degrees in a port that ices up in winter.

I was reminded of the Peter Sellers movie, The Mouse That Roared where this tiny imaginary European country decides to invade America and lose so the Yanks will rebuild their country. They just happened to arrive in New York during a nuclear war exercise so everyone was in bomb shelters. They had to go home to report that unfortunately they had won. If the Germans took on Leningrad (the original sign at the port entrance is still there) again, disguised as tourists on cruise ships they’d win hands down. They would however have a fight on their hands with the Chinese who are everywhere and not just in Russia. They take photos of everything in minute detail so don’t be surprised if a few imitation Peterhofs or Hermitage palace museums spring up in Guangzhou.
Being in Finland I feel somewhat compelled to have a Pure Blonde beer but less compelled to have a pickled herring burger or reindeer hot dog. I’m sorry but the only reindeer I know all have names and are absolutely vital to the success of Christmas so eating them just wouldn’t feel right.

I’m reminded of the Finnish national anthem which goes something like this:
Finland, Finland, Finland,
The country where I just want to be,
Pony trekking or riding,
Or just watching TV.
It was written by either that famous Finnish composer Sibelius or by Monty Python. I can’t recall which.

Speaking of notable Finnish, Paavo Nurmi is a local hero who had many notable finishes at the 52 Olympics which were held here. He was a distance runner. There is a statue of him outside the Olympic stadium and he’s nude. I thought that was Ancient Greece not 20th century Europe.
But what a wonderful place (like most places we’ve been to this trip). The sun’s shining, there’s no wind, hardly a cloud in the sky and it’s 22 degrees. I could live here until +22 becomes -22 and the sea freezes. Then I’d shift to my summer palace in Redcliffe.

One more wonderful place to visit – Stockholm. We know it’s wonderful because we’ve been there. Consequently tomorrow we are undertaking a more unusual tourist caper. It’s a rooftop walking tour which goes to some pretty scary places apparently. So this could be the last post.